


Trash-can Kids

by ditty (Triple_A)



Series: Fast Little Nonsenses [7]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Homelessness, Kids AU, Oops all humans! au, idk if that's a good tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23331673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triple_A/pseuds/ditty
Summary: Hank thinks he knows himself. He knows he's getting old, he's not as spry or as clever as he used to be, and he knows that like all other things, his eyes are going with age.But there is definitely a kid going through his trash can right now.: :There's a kid going through Hank's trash right now.
Relationships: Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900, Hank Anderson & Connor, Hank Anderson & Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 & Sumo
Series: Fast Little Nonsenses [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1420552
Comments: 4
Kudos: 85





	Trash-can Kids

**Author's Note:**

> Hank's not as much of a mess here compared to canon

Hank thinks he knows himself. He knows he's getting old, he's not as spry or as clever as he used to be, and he knows that like all other things, his eyes are going with age.

But there is _definitely_ a kid going through his trash can right now.

He's watching through a gap in the windows. It's way too early in the morning for him or any rational soul to be up, and not even the trash collectors are around at this hour. The only reason he's up is because of the ridiculously early hour he crashed the day before, thanks to an unhealthy spree of all-nighters, and had been blearily considering a cup of coffee when he heard the rattling from outside.

He was expecting to see a raccoon, and was wondering if he could shake Sumo awake to go chase it off. Instead, he'd looked out the window to see a _kid_ in his _goddamn trash cans_ , their entire torso in the bin and skinny legs waving as they dig through his empty takeout boxes and whiskey bottles.

He's not sure what to do. As he watches, the kid comes up with something huge and lumpy-Sumo's old dog bed, which Hank decided to chuck out after finding it collecting dust and mildew in the garage-and stuffs it under their arm, before carefully replacing the bin cover and taking off down the sidewalk, out of Hank's sight.

A few minutes later, the trash trucks come around to collect what's left. 

* * *

It's so bizarre he's not sure if he actually saw it or if it was some sort of strange hallucination. His therapist certainly thinks so, citing some stuff about stress and past trauma and whatever whatever affecting his dreams.

But he isn't sure until he sees it again, this time awake because he'd never fallen asleep the night before, and alerted to it by the quiet rustle of bags from outside. He springs to his feet, exhaustion gone, and creeps to the window again.

The kid is back, and now he gets a better look. They're skinny and dressed in a t-shirt that's too big and a pair of threadbare sweatpants. A mop of wild, dark hair. Smudges on pale cheeks and arms. They come up with a half-empty bottle of beer and some newspapers.

This time Hank opens the door, though he's not sure why or what he's going to do. His mind is stuck somewhere between asking the kid if they're alright and telling them they can't drink alcohol.

By the time he manages to get the chain off the lock, he's greeted by cold air, a gray sky, and his trash cans with the lid off, and the kid's departing back as they rush away, legs pumping with their spoils clutched in their arms.

This time he notices how they have no shoes.

* * *

The kid comes again a few days later. This time, Hank is prepared.

He'd taken to getting up at the ass-crack of dawn in the mornings just to sit up and see if the kid will show. Usually passing out within the hour when nothing shows.

But today, he sees them. Creeping up to his bins and pausing when they notice the shoebox on top of the cover, glancing around before lifting the lid.

Hank had bought the shoes from a thrift store with the closest guess he can take to the correct measurement as he could. They're a pair of old sneakers, the riotous green and gray long since faded out from repeated washings, and as the kid takes them out Hank can see the shoes are a half-size too small. But the kid's face lights up. They admire them for a big before replacing them in the box, before taking the whole thing and rushing off again.

 _Size five,_ Hank makes a mental note to himself.

When the kid appears again the next day, they find a pair in the correct size (these red and striped blue) and tug them on immediately with a grin on their face.

* * *

The winter is approaching fast. Fall has just set in, but Detroit winters always hit suddenly and viciously, with the bitter cold of autumn only just giving warning to it.

Hank thinks about calling the police, or CPS, but he's seen how fast the kid runs. A patrol car staked out in front of his house would only dissuade them, and he has bad enough history with CPS to be hesitant about calling them (though he berates himself silently for his own selfishness in his actions). He wonders if there's a way to invite them inside and get them a proper meal, but thinks that might be taken the wrong way. The kid seems too smart to trust strangers so easily.

In the end, he leaves an old but thick quilt, also courtesy of a thrift store, in the trash can, along with a winter coat. One that was gifted ages ago by some friend of a brother of an aunt, for "Cole to grow into."

He hadn't looked at it in ages, but it'd do more good to the kid instead of just rotting away in the linen closet. And the kid's face splits in a bright grin when they tug it on, arms disappearing in the soft folds of fleece and down.

This time, Hank notices the darker smudges on their arms, evidence of bruising, before they are covered completely.

Maybe he _should_ call CPS.

* * *

He puts a sign up instead, staked deep in front of his lawn.

"WANTED: DOG WALKER. MORNINGS AND EVENINGS. INQUIRE AT: XXX-XXX-XXXX"

He feels like a creep, watching the kid pick up the half-eaten box of pizza off the top of the bin and freeze at the sight of the sign. He's not even sure what to expect. The kid disappears as they always do. Hank makes a mental note to take the sign down later.

**Author's Note:**

> Accidental father Hank Anderson


End file.
